Madalina
by Ashlee R. Estep
Summary: Madalina is a gypsy girl who has just arrived in Paris after escaping her home in Romania with her tribe. She thinks she has made it to safety among friends such as Clopin, the King of Gypsies, and Pierre Gringoire, the penniless poet. Yet little does she know, the past she has tried so hard to forget will soon be back to find her. Clopin/OC
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Madalina was surprised by the brightness. France seemed to be another world, so completely different was it from her homeland. Everything was so open, so full of air and life. They seemed to be worlds away from the land of forests, of wolves, of darkness. All around them were rolling hills with long grasses that billowed gently in the wind. The crystal sky of pure azure stretched endlessly above them, spotted here and there with ivory clouds. Their dream and come true.

The leader of their tribe, Dragomir, led the way to a secluded spot in a clump of trees nearby that would be their shelter. As they had traveled farther and farther west, they had begun walking at night and sleeping in the day, lest they should be spotted and reported as truants.

"We are looked upon little better than at home," Dragomir had warned them, "but . . ." The chief had not finished; there was no need. They all knew that they were better off in France than in Romania.

When the tribe was gathered in the small, wooded area, they all scattered to do their part in setting up what would be their camp for the next several hours while they rested. Madalina's four-year-old sister, Jaelle, continued to cling to her hand, her large, black eyes forever wide with fear. Madalina knew she should help her clan set up camp, but there was no chance of Jaelle releasing her any time soon.

A good distance away was a woman, a baby swaddled in bright fabric and tied against her back. The beautiful, dark-skinned baby girl was fast asleep, her dark eyes closed and her round cheek resting on her mother's shoulder blade. Still holding onto Jaelle, Madalina weaved her way through the people to where their mother stood.

"Mamă," she said, brushing a strand of black hair from her face, "I am going to rinse Jaelle off in the stream over there." She gestured to what was little more than a creek about a hundred paces to the west.

Her mother, Alina, looked hesitant. On one hand, she knew that her daughter was likely to just want some time alone, away from their clan, to have a chance to relax. On the other, she also knew that her younger daughter, Jaelle, would benefit from a break after all the walking they had done. Even after being carried a good distance, her small feet were swollen and bleeding. She, more than anyone, would benefit from a long rest. At last, Alina nodded.

"Don't wander off too far," she warned. "Stay where I can see you."

"For God's sake, Alina, Madalina is an adult," came her husband's voice, scathing and derisive. "Or at least she _was—_"

Before her father had a chance to finish his scorn, Madalina led her sister away. She didn't meet Violeta's eyes as she passed her and her family. Ever since her identical twin sister had married and started a family, they had grown further and further apart. But the last thing Madalina wanted to think about was her past. Along with her homeland, all of her memories there would be cast aside, as well. This was the perfect fresh start for her. At sixteen, it was what she needed more than anything.

Jaelle winced as her older sister gently placed her feet in the water, but she said nothing. She rarely spoke these days, unless it was to Madalina or their mother. No one was sure if it was her long illness that had affected her or merely the long travel. Either way, she was not the same little girl that she had been two months ago.

"Why is Tati always angry?" came a small whisper after a few moments of silence.

Madalina was startled by the quiet voice that she so rarely heard. She turned to glance at their father, who was arguing with Violeta's husband about something. Again. She hated to lie to her sister, but how could she tell the truth? She knew exactly why their father was always angry, but Jaelle was far too young to understand.

"I don't know, _pireni_," Madalina lied with a soft sigh. "Some people just aren't happy a lot."

Jaelle tilted her head back to study her big sister, her lower lip jutting out at she thought.

"Are _you_ happy, _soră_?" she asked, using the special 'nickname' that she reserved only for Madalina, though she had three sisters.

Madalina did not let herself pause to think about the question. She merely smiled and pulled the little girl close in a quick embrace before bending down to rinse her swollen feet in the cool water.

"I am when I'm with you," she replied at last, not looking at her. At least it wasn't a complete lie. The closest semblance that Madalina felt to happiness only occurred when she was with the little, innocent girl.

* * *

Madalina woke when all was dark. The others in her clan were moving as silently as shadows around her, quickly removing any trace that they had been there. As she lay curled on the ground, her body cushioned by the dead leaves that had fallen from the surrounding trees, she felt Jaelle stir. The young girl was curled against her, her arms locked around her knees. It was as she, too, had been woken by the darkness that had seemed to suddenly descend upon them like a black veil. Not even the moon peeked through the trees.

No words needed to be exchanged among the tribe. Dragomir led the way once everyone was ready, glancing around furtively before leaving the sheltering protection of the woods and creeping down a long hill. His wife, Nicoleta, walked just behind him, holding the hand of their eight-year-old son. Madalina knew without being reminded that they would be arriving in Paris that night. After two-and-a-half months of traveling from Transylvania, they would finally arrive and their horrific journey would end. Arrangements had been made to meet with a Parisian gypsy on the northern outskirts of the city where there was no wall to block them. Hopefully, after almost three months with no communication, the gypsy would keep his promise and be there waiting for them.

When they at last came over the final hill, Madalina saw nothing. In her dreams and fantasies, she had pictured her first sight of Paris. She had imagined the walls, the many buildings, the people. But she could see nothing in the darkness. The only indication she had that they had made it was Dragomir's quick whisper that they had done so. Though they were so close, Madalina felt no release of anxiety. She knew she wouldn't until she was safe and out of harm's way once and for all.

They continued to walk for what felt like hours, no sound to be heard but an occasional footstep and the whisper of wind. Then, all of a sudden, Madalina saw a large, lone tower rising above them. Her heart thudded with anticipation, and she felt Jaelle squeeze her hand anxiously. A quick signal from Dragomir told the clan to halt, and she watched her uncle creep towards the tower, flanked by his eldest son, Radu, and his brother, Vladimir.

"Where is _bunic_?" Madalina heard her twin sister's young son whisper. He was asking of his grandfather, Vladimir.

"_Shh!_" Violeta hissed, her voice barely audible to anyone but her son.

It seemed like a lifetime before the men returned. When they finally did, they were accompanied by someone Madalina had never seen. In the darkness, she could only make out his silhouette and the occasional glimmer of his eyes. When he spoke, he did so with an accent she had never heard before.

"I am told you are the group from Romania," he said, his voice barely louder than his own breathing. "We have waited for you every night for almost a month. I am Clopin, and I will take you to the Court. We must do this quickly and quietly, and we cannot all go together. I will take the women and children with me first. Your leader tells me there are not many. When I return, I will take another group."

Where he would be taking them, Madalina didn't know. Nevertheless, she hoisted Jaelle into her arms and prepared to place her life in this mysterious man's hands. She gathered before him with her mother, sisters, her aunt and two cousins, and the small number of other women and the only other child. The man surveyed them for a moment before nodding quickly.

"You must remain absolutely silent," he warned. "If a baby cries, you must do your best to silence it. Not only do the _gadje_ not appreciate the Rom being out this late, but they have a general curfew for all Parisians. Also, they will not want to sneak even _more _gypsies into the city."

His words were met with silence. Clopin nodded once before setting off, not giving the two groups of people a chance to say goodbye to one another, lest something bad should happen. As they walked, Jaelle clung fearfully to her sister's neck, her face burrowed in Madalina's shoulder. Most fortunately, not a single child made a sound. Catherine, Madalina's baby sister, slept soundly in her mother's swaddled fabric. Violeta's baby looked around curiously but made not a peep.

The only thing Madalina could see of the famous Paris as they approached were dark shapes of buildings. The man leading them kept them pressed against buildings and walls, rarely walking out in the open. He stopped at every corner, turning his head in every direction to make sure no one was coming. Where could he be taking them? What was "the Court"? Where was it that the Rom of Paris congregated that was safe from prying eyes?

They walked slowly for at least an hour before Clopin finally stopped. It was only as he began weaving his way through tombstones that Madalina realized they had entered a graveyard and that looming above them was the sharp outline of a deserted church. The man seemed to know exactly where he was going. He stopped at a large, raised tomb with some sort of engraving on the stone, not hesitating before heaving the great lid off and onto the ground with a muffled thump.

"This will lead to the catacombs," he explained, wiping his brow. "Go down the stairs and walk straight. Do not make a single turn or you will become lost. Continue straight until someone from the Court fetches you. When they do, you must tell them in our language that you are friends. I must now return for the others."

Without waiting for a response or a goodbye, Clopin turned and quickly strode away. The women in the tribe glanced at one another, all clearly hesitant about descending into the catacombs.

"You lead the way, _pireni_," Madalina heard her mother whisper soothingly, rubbing her arm. "We will follow you."

Madalina froze. They wanted _her _to lead the way through an underground tomb? She could only assume it was because she was the oldest one still considered an adolescent. All of the other women concerned themselves with their babies and their young children. Nevertheless, despite her fears, she nodded. She climbed onto the walls of the tomb and gingerly began climbing down the steep, short steps. She heard the women follow her, but she didn't turn around. She kept walking, focusing on the pitch blackness that waited at the bottom. How could Clopin expect them to be able to find their way? It was even darker than the moonless night above ground.

The first thing she felt when she reached the bottom was cold. And then wet. It took her moment to realize that she was standing in ankle-deep water, the hem of her skirt now soaked in what was probably sewage. She knew better than to complain, though. None of the others said a word, though. Even Violeta's son kept silent. Holding Jaelle in one arm and her mother's hand with her other, she led the way slowly through the catacombs. In a way, Madalina was glad that it was so dark; this way none of the children could see what was likely surrounding them: skeletons of those who died long ago.

Madalina wasn't sure how long they walked in a straight line. She wondered, for a moment, if they would hear another group from their tribe being led by Clopin, but, hopefully, this was unlikely. Even though Clopin would likely move much more quickly on his way back to the large tower, he still had to come back with them. Such a trip would take at least an hour-and-a-half, and Madalina could only hope they would be out of the sewers by then.

"Do we still have to be quiet?" came a soft whisper from down the line. Violeta's son, Vladmir, always had a problem remaining silent.

His mother answered him with a gentle shush. Madalina wished she could be like Jaelle or Vladimir or one of the other young children who could be carried. Her already aching feet kept stumbling upon rocks underneath the water, scraping her sensitive skin and probably causing even more blood to spill. Soon there would probably be none left.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the group of women and children heard a voice.

"Who are you?" The voice was deep, menacing. Yet Madalina felt relief when she heard it, for they spoke Romani. She knew that they were gypsies from the "Court," wherever that was, come to help them like Clopin said they would.

It was Nicoleta, the wife of their leader, who took her husband's place and spoke for them, her voice loud and confident. "We are friends from Romania," she said, nothing betraying her weariness, "sent by Clopin. We are the women of the tribe of Salazar."

Suddenly, a torch was a lit and the women winced at the sudden brightness. The man holding the torch rose from his crouching position off to the side amid a pile of skulls. Immediately he was flanked by to others, apparently other guards.

"We have been expecting you," the first man said, his strangely accented voice suddenly warmer. He smiled. "Welcome to Paris. I will now take you to the Court of Miracles."

_Welcome to Paris_. The man's words seemed to echo in Madalina's head. Had they truly made it? But she knew she wouldn't really believe it until she was completely safe, until they had finally stopped traveling. The man turned and led them further down the tunnel. Jaelle buried her face in Madalina's shoulder once more, apparently no longer wanting to see any of the decayed corpses. After a few minutes, Madalina and the others began to notice a spot of light in the distance. As they continued walking, the light grew larger and brighter. They heard voices. Then, suddenly, they were there.

The women found themselves in a vast, endless cavern made of stone. There were torches lit here and there, making everything seem impossibly bright despite the fact that they were underground. Draped everywhere and over everything were clothes and tapestries of every bright color. In spite of the late hour, people laughed and called out to one another. Madalina had never seen so many Rom in one place. It amazed her. When a small group of people nearby saw the man appear with the newcomers, they sent out a cheer of welcome.

"Welcome," said the man, stepping aside, "to the Court of Miracles."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"COME," THE MAN SAID, breaking the spell that the Court of Miracles seemed to have placed upon the women and children. "I will take you to meet the king."

Madalina exchanged a glance with her mother. Both of them seemed to be thinking along the same lines: the _king_? Madalina knew that France had a king, but what would he be doing in the underground catacombs of Paris? Nevertheless, they followed the man who had guided them through the sewers into the depths of this great cavern.

"There are so many people," she remarked, speaking more to herself than anyone else. This many Rom rarely congregated together; they tended to form smaller clumps and banded together, rather than having large groups. "Does everyone live her . . .?"

"Not usually," their guide replied cheerfully, startling her slightly. "Only some live in the Court full time, such as those too elderly to travel or those with very young children, or simply those who do not wish to live outside of the safety of the Paris walls. Many rejoin us in the long winter months, but in times like these, most are in camps outside of Paris who come within the walls during the day to earn money. Our king, however, always lives inside the Court of Miracles, in case there is ever anyone who is need of him."

At last they approached a large, violet tent. It was placed off to the side, away from the hustle and bustle of what appeared to be the "main square" of the Court (which also, curiously enough, included a platform with a noose mounted on it). The man walked to the flaps of the tent and knocked on the fabric a few times.

"The tribe from Romania have arrived, my friend," he called. "I have with me the women and children. Clopin has gone with two others to fetch the rest."

What king was addressed in such a way? Madalina was immensely confused, yet she said nothing. Nicoleta approached the front, as was her duty as the wife of the leader of their clan. Her son clung to her hand, no longer the "mighty, brave warrior" that he often claimed to be. After a moment, a man and a woman emerged from the tent. Despite the late hour, both seemed to be wide awake. They smiled warmly at the exhausted, dirty gypsy women and children before them.

"Welcome to Paris," the 'king' said. "I am Léon Trouillefou, the King of Thunes, Gypsies, Bohemia, and all of Paris, if you will. This is my wife, Julienne."

His Royal Highness, Léon Trouillefou, stood tall, much taller than his petite wife. He was barrel-chested and broad with a warm smile on his bearded face and black, twinkling eyes. Julienne, his queen, was small and thin with a dark, angular face, a pretty smile, and a pointed nose. Her black hair was perfectly straight and streaked with gray, though her face showed barely a single line. She reminded Madalina very much of her own mother.

"Thank you," Nicoleta replied, inclining her head to both of them. "I am Nicoleta Salazar. My husband, Dragomir, is the leader of our tribe. We have come a long way from our homeland, and we thank you from the depths of our hearts for your extraordinary kindness."

Julienne smiled. "The Court of Miracles is always open to those who need it. Some people come to stay the night and end up staying for a year. For some, it is a temporary shelter, but for others, like my family, it is a home. Do you have tents of any kind?"

Nicoleta shook her head. "We were forced to leave behind such things. We have slept out in the open for the past two months, and we are willing to do so again."

"That will not be necessary," said Léon with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We have spare tents that are free for you all to divide amongst yourselves. Once you are settled in Paris, you are free to stay in the Court as long as you like, though many do choose to leave the walls of the city to one of the many gypsy camps. Tomorrow, if you feel up to it, we can have someone show you around Paris."

"Thank you," Nicoleta said, bowing her head once more. "We cannot begin to express our gratitude."

"We must wait for our husbands," Violeta said, turning to Madalina once the king and queen and retreated into their tent. "You, my dear, must get the children into a tent and to sleep. After that, you may have a tent to yourself."

Madalina's eyes widened. "You do not wish that I share with Jaelle?"

Alina glanced from her four-year-old daughter, fast asleep on Madalina's shoulder, to her eldest. "No," she replied. "Like your father says, you are a woman and not a child. Things will be different here, my pet. You will . . . fit in more. You will not be different from other young women your age."

Madalina said nothing. She knew that her mother meant the difference in culture among the Rom in France as opposed to Romania. In their homeland, it was expected that parents marry off their daughter as young as twelve or thirteen years of age. But here, some girls didn't marry until they were eighteen. It seemed ancient to Madalina, at sixteen, but if she would no longer be seen as different . . .

It was all Madalina could do to lead the five children of the tribe to a vacant tent and not find one of her own in which to curl up and forget about the world. In one arm was her youngest sister, Catherine, and in her other was her cousin's son, Radu. The other children—Dragomir, Andrei, and Jaelle—trailed behind her sleepily. Madalina wished she could be among them, to possess the innocence of childhood that she sorely missed. All they cared about was snuggling under warm blankets and sleeping. Had they already forgotten the horrors of the past two months? Had little Andrei, the son of Madalina's sister Violeta, already forgotten the death of his tiny baby sister, Stela, who had died only three weeks after they had begun their journey? Or what about little Nicolæ, the baby who had been born to Madalina's cousin Ruxandra, who had died only two weeks previously, for whom his poor mother was still grieving? Were the memories just as lost as the babies themselves? And they had not been the only ones who had perished on their long, hopeless journey.

Madalina shook the dark thoughts from her head by the time they reached an empty tent pointed out to them by Julienne. The children walked in groggily, the three older ones bumping into one another and stumbling. Inside the tent was a larger straw mattress and a mound of cushions. Madalina sent Dragomir and Andrei to the cushions and arranged Jaelle and the two babies on the mattress. As she placed a kiss on the forehead of each child, Jaelle clung to her.

"Don't go," she pleaded softly.

"Mamă will be here soon to take Catherine," she assured her, smoothing the dark hair from her forehead. "She and Tati will say good night to you then. You will not be alone, _pireni_. Be brave for Radu and Catherine."

When Jaelle nodded, Madalina smiled, gave her one last kiss, and hurried from the tent before any other child could stop her. As she walked to another empty tent, she rejoiced for the first time that she was not married. While her twin sister, fourteen-year-old Ecaterina, and all of the other women waited for their husbands, Madalina was able to find a tent that would be her very own and fall asleep. As she passed the few people who were still awake, no one looked at her, a woman of sixteen walking alone, strangely. They smiled kindly and greeted her in Romani and French. She was not seen as the same person she had been in Romania. Here, in Paris, she was simply Madalina.

* * *

THE FIRST STRANGE THING that Madalina noticed when she woke up was that she did so naturally. She could not remember a time that she had not either woken with the dawn to begin her daily chores or that she had not been woken by her mother or someone else in the tribe. But, she supposed, it was possible that the others in her tribe were busied by the tasks of their daily lives and didn't really have time to spare a passing thought about her. It wouldn't have been the first time it had happened.

The second strange thing Madalina observed were the sounds. She had become so used to hearing the sounds of the outside world: the wind in the trees, the sounds of animals, water bubbling over rocks in a creek, the fire crackling as the women prepared their next meal. But now she heard many, many voices that seemed to echo strangely throughout the Court. There were the sounds of footsteps upon stone, of things being dropped, rolled, and thrown. The smells of spices and cooking food masked the previous odor of the catacombs.

The small trunk that contained all of her worldly possessions had been deposited in her tent at some point during the night. This, she assumed, meant that all of the men in her tribe had arrived safely with Clopin, their guide. Madalina rolled from her straw mattress and onto the floor of the tent, crawling on her hands and knees to wear the handmade, ornately designed chest waited. Inside was the only other dresses she owned which she had kept safely locked away to prevent them from getting dirty and torn like the one she had worn throughout their travels. One was simple with white sleeves, a black bodice, and a yellow-red skirt. The other was a dress that she had made purely for her performances. It had nearly every color imaginable in its wide, flowing skirt. Some said that, when she wore it, she became the only bird of paradise that they would ever see. Nestled in the trunk, protected by her dresses and other fabrics, was her sole means of earning money: her prized gittern. The four double-stringed instrument had been crafted by a member of her mother's family and passed down through the generations to each eldest child. Before her marriage, Violeta had relied on fortune telling and palm reading to make money. But Madalina used her music.

A sense of calm overcame her as she plucked one of the strings, listening to its deep, unique sound. Alina had taught her to play as a little girl just as Alina's father had taught her. And one day, Madalina knew she would teach her firstborn child to ensure that her family's song never became lost.

Knowing she needed to rise and finally emerge from the tent, Madalina replaced the gittern back into the box and quickly donned her spare dress. As she put on her brass bracelets and her bandana and shawl with the dangling, Romanian coins, she finally began to feel like her old self. Taking a breath, she took one last look at the interior of her red tent before walking out through the flaps and into the Court.

Immediately, she collided with someone.

The man she had run into was tall and lean, his limbs exceedingly wiry and muscled at the same time. His face was long and pointed, his eyes black and twinkling. There was a gold hoop in each ear and a violet hat with a yellow feather atop his head. His entire outfit was violet and blue, complete with a small dagger hanging at his hips.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, his smile charming and slightly teasing. Madalina recognized his accented voice immediately: it was Clopin.

"Evening?" Madalina repeated, taken aback. Her eyes met his for a brief second, but she quickly looked downward, preferring to gaze at his shoulder instead. "I . . . I'm sorry I ran into you."

"The fault was mine, mademoiselle," Clopin said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What is that you call me?" Madalina asked, managing to raise her gaze to his chin.

"I call you mademoiselle," Clopin replied easily. "It is what one calls a young woman in French. You will have to learn French if you wish to make a living here."

"I don't know if I can," said Madalina, her cheeks reddening. "I know only Romani and Romanian, and neither will be of use to me in Paris."

"Perhaps I can teach you," said Clopin. "I'm sure you will be able to get the hang of it quickly enough. Besides, if you don't plan on telling fortunes, then not knowing French might not be so bad."

Madalina shrugged self-consciously. "In Romania I played my gittern to earn money."

"Your what?" Clopin arched an eyebrow, clearly confused.

"It is an instrument," Madalina explained. "It was given to me by my mother when I . . . well, some years ago."

Her cheeks reddened further, but Clopin didn't seem to notice her sudden hesitance. He nodded thoughtfully, stroking his goatee.

"It was I who led you into the city last night," he said after a moment, a jovial smile appearing on his face once more, "in case you did not recognize me. I am Clopin Trouillefou."

"Trouillefou?" Madalina attempted to repeat, struggling with the difficult pronunciation. "Then you are—"

Clopin's smile widened. "The prince, yes," he said, somewhat mischievously. "One day I shall be king of this band of truants and beggars, for I am the king and queen's eldest son. And may I have your name, mademoiselle?"

Madalina was slightly flustered. She'd had no idea that their first guide the previous night had been the prince. She didn't know why the leaders of this Romani tribe in Paris were called the king and queen, but perhaps that meant the Trouillefous were more important than those such as Dragomir and Nicoleta, who bore no such titles. Their three children, Ruxandra, Radu, and Dragomir, were certainly not a princess and princes. (Although sometimes Ruxandra acted like a princess.)

"I am Madalina Salazar . . . Your Highness," Madalina mumbled. What was she supposed to call him? She recalled that the man who had led them from the catacombs had addressed the King of Gypsies as "my friend." But perhaps he was of some high status, as well.

But the moment she addressed him so highly, Clopin laughed, quickly shaking his head.

"I have no need for such names," he said, his tone not unkind. "To all, I am simply Clopin just as my father is simply Léon. We may bear royal titles, but we do not sit higher than any other at the dinner table, I assure you."

"Oh," Madalina muttered, lowering her eyes even further.

Clopin finally seemed to sense her shyness. He took a half-step backward and glanced around casually before asking his next question.

"The little girl you were holding last night . . . she's your daughter, yes?"

Now Madalina's eyes snapped to his, widened with surprise. "No," she said quickly, shaking her head. "No, of course not. Jaelle is my sister. I . . . I am unmarried and have no children."

"Ah." Clopin shrugged. "I was unsure. I had heard that it was sometimes a custom among the Rom in your country to marry at a much younger age than here, so I was uncertain."

Madalina nodded uncomfortably. "Yes, it is," she replied. "My twin sister married at the age of thirteen and had her son that same year; my cousin Ruxandra was married three years ago when she was fourteen; and I . . . well, I am the oddity in my clan, I suppose."

"Ah, but now you are part of the Trouillefou kingdom," Clopin said grandly, a reassuring smile on his face. "Young gypsy maidens do not marry until they are at least sixteen here, sometimes not until eighteen, or sometimes not at all. Here, you are perfectly normal, mademoiselle. It is the other girls in your family's tribe who will be considered unusual."

There was no way Clopin could know or understand the sense of relief that Madalina felt at his words. In Romania, she had been almost an outcast. She'd had nothing in common with other girls her age because they had all been married for at least a year and only talked about things like their husbands, their children, sewing, cooking, and everything Madalina didn't care about. Though Madalina cooked and sewed for herself, she was glad she didn't yet have to do so for a husband or children. If what Clopin said was true, then maybe there were other Rom in Paris her age who were unmarried. Maybe, finally, she would be able to fit in somewhere.


End file.
